


Album Title Cover

by hit_the_books



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Architect Castiel, Awkward Kissing, Betaed, Bisexual Castiel, Bisexual Dean, DJ Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Dream Oral Sex, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1992. Chicago. Grunge and love is in the air.</p><p>Dean Winchester's radio show promises finding your missed connection. And now he needs to decide how to handle the caller that's called for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't fake this

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that while this first chapter contains no smut, subsequent ones will.
> 
> This story originally started off in the depths of Fandomnatural. It is to the Insomniacs Club that this fic is dedicated to as it wouldn't exist without them.

Nine years before Amélie was asking how many people were having orgasms in Paris right there and then (it was fifteen); four months before some “Bulls” fans went a bit crazy -- Dean Winchester faced off against a great unknown. The cheeks were unidentifiable as they waggled, a few feet in front of him. The matador was masked and covered in lush matador garb -- all reds, golds, and fuschias -- from head to toe, except for his firm ass cheeks, hands and neck.The figure had blue eyes and was nearly as tall as Dean's brother; but Sam towered over everyone, even Dean. He couldn’t hear the matador as he pranced past his broadcast booth, but Dean was certain this was turning out to be the weirdest damn Valentine’s Day that he had ever experienced.

Dean could have pressed the intercom and asked for security to come by, but the ass-cheeks were kind of mesmerizing as John Mellencamp’s “Again Tonight” reached the halfway point. He had another track all queued up to play, heading for a bit of classic Queen, with “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”, but he needed to start talking after Freddie and he was uncertain if he would be able to. Dean’s producer, Meg, was definitely missing out, having chosen the worst moment to take a quick bathroom break. Dean felt himself growing uncomfortably warm inside his flannel shirt and jeans. His toes curled inside his Doc Martin’s.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw movement from the other side of his booth. The masked matador was facing away from Benny as the broad-set security guard quietly approached the exposed ass cheeks, the matador continuing his strange dance. Benny looked to Dean, winked and then went to tackle the matador.

Charging like a bull towards the masked matador, Benny gave a look of surprise as the figure managed to sidestep out of Benny’s massive reach. Hurtling off somewhere past the view of Dean’s booth, he couldn’t see where Benny had landed. Eyes wide open, Dean felt himself blushing as the masked matador turned to face him once more and mimed blowing a kiss towards him before sprinting away from the booth.

Ten seconds later, Meg arrived -- her long, curly brown hair a writhing sea around her -- two other security guards in tow. Dean’s producer mouthed a question, asking where the guy had gone and Dean pointed. Meg ordered the other two guards to follow, then tended to Benny. Dean continued to broadcast -- on autopilot as he faded between tracks -- the queued up tape of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” started to play, Freddie’s voice thrumming through his headphones.

“This thing called love I just can't handle it; this thing called love I must get round to it…” Meg helped Benny limp past Dean’s booth.

Dean used the track as a chance to treble check his way through his next round of read-outs. His show’s Friday slot was always the most interesting; people clamored to him with the dream of their weekends being more than the last. Dean had noticed this trend since starting the job in January. That night was his seventh show on a Friday. The midweek crowd were more relaxed, but the Friday night crowd and on Valentine’s Day to boot… Dean checked he’d censored enough of their words so that he wouldn’t have the FCC breathing down the station’s neck.

But considering the messages the people of Chicago sent in to “Deano’s Missed Connections”, Dean was pretty sure none of them were worried about him saying live on-air: “shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.” It felt unfair to Dean to cross out tits, but to leave cock in.

Freddie was almost done and Dean got his mic ready, checking his pop-shield a moment, before taking a deep breath and fading the end of the song as he began to speak.

“And that was Queen’s ‘A Crazy Thing Called Love’ and before that John Mellencamp’s ‘Again Tonight’. Well, ladies and gentlemen it’s finally time for some more of your missed connections.

“First up,” Dean smiled, “we have a certain lady looking for ‘rock out with your cock out’. She says,” Dean shifted from his usual husky tones, bringing his voice slightly higher, “you’re a construction-looking guy, and you were driving a red ‘91 Chevrolet sedan. You couldn't wait to get home? People can see you, you know?”

Going back to his own voice, and knowing his audience would be able to hear the smile playing across his lips, Dean continued. “Next we have a gentleman looking for his ‘Monday night-knight in shining armor’.

“I was having trouble Monday night and you came to fix the problem. The service was great and your personality was a real change. We talked about how we ended up in Chicago and where you were from. Would like to know more and see if there is anything else I could do to thank you for your help for being kind and efficient. Maybe let me be yours this Valentine’s.

“Okay, folks, you know the drill: call us now on 1-900-” Dean rattled off the show’s premium rate number and PO Box for the show, plus the show’s fax number and required contact information, “and now a message from our sponsors.”

The jingle faded in and Dean turned to look across the corridor outside his booth to his producer’s booth. Meg was just sitting down again. There was a look of quiet fury on her face and Dean prayed that he was not going to be chewed out the moment he was off the air. How was he meant to react to a man willingly showing his ass off to him? It wasn’t like they were in public. It hadn’t hurt anyone, save Benny -- who would be fine because he had played college football once upon a time -- and had had worse.

Half-an-hour of his show remained, his slot due to end at 11:30, and Dean felt a tiny pang in his stomach as Led Zeppelin's “Thank You” started thrumming through his headphones. This was his first Valentine’s Day in a long while where he was without any pre-made plans. It was four months since he’d broken things off with Lisa and moved out of her apartment. Four months where he found the dream job of many, but his personal life had fallen apart. Last month, his twenty-sixth birthday had been one long night in a bar with just Sammy, Ash and Benny for company.

Since getting the show, he’d been pretty busy between the station and Benny’s auto shop. But he had some spare cash for once… and no one to spend it on other than himself. It was definitely the most depressing Valentine’s Day he had dragged himself through considering work was the highlight.

Maybe it was his bottoming mood, but Dean made a quick track switch during another commercial break. Switching out some light-hearted Beatles, he went in the complete opposite direction; instead he played “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. Being twenty-six had not diminished Dean’s ability to appreciate true rawness when it was there.

“Load up on guns, bring your friends. It's fun to lose and to pretend. She's over bored and self assured. Oh no, I know a dirty word…”

Meg frowned at Dean from her booth, but said nothing as the track continued to play. Listening to Kurt Cobain’s youthful, rusty voice scream out all that angst made Dean feel a little better. The power there behind the lyrics, the subversion; Dean felt Nirvana would be going places.

A handful more tracks, missed connections and commercial messages trotted out the remainder of his slot. Dean was trying to feel good, maybe even wishing the matador’s ass was back. It was a lonely Valentine’s Day.

He did feel his heart lift as he read out the final missed connection of the night. A chick looking for a young woman who had caught her eye. “Okay, here’s our final connection people, so let’s see if we can’t help these two lovely ladies find love tonight,” Dean switched to his high voice. “‘Lou’s Pizzeria Asian chick’: I see you in Lou’s occasionally (you're medium height, kinda punk girl and you like Star Wars shirts, sunglasses always on your head) and I think you're the hottest thing since Anton Levay. I really want to take you on a date to a rock show and then take you back to my pad. You can be my Princess Leia. I can be your Chewbacca.”

Reeling off contact details for the slot in his normal voice, Dean slapped some more sponsor messages on, seeing movement from the booth to his right. Missouri was getting set-up for the night. It was like Dean brought people together and then Missouri cleaned up the messes created, with her late night agony aunt call-ins. Missouri wouldn’t be playing any tracks during her show, instead shifting between call-ins, letters, and sponsor messages as she tried to solve the love lives of all of Chicago. That night would be one heck of a show, that's for sure.

“I may bring them together, but here’s our true lady of the heart tonight,” Dean rumbled into his microphone, “ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to heave you into the loving bosom of the one and only: Missouri Moseley!” He flipped a switch and his broadcast ended as Missouri’s show jingle filtered into his headphones and Missouri winked at him before she began her usual spiel.

Meg was waving at him from her producer’s booth and Dean took off his headphones, checked over his controls, and made sure nothing would mess Missouri up. He headed on over to Meg, picking up his leather jacket on the way. The anger was less intense on her face, but Dean gritted his teeth as he entered Meg’s booth. She tapped her fingers on her desk, the movement threatening a fresh polystyrene cup of coffee from the kitchen that was steaming away beside her. She’d be there until Missouri’s slot was over.

“Hello, Meg.” Dean closed the door behind him. Meg had one ear cocked towards a single headphone, multitasking.

“Dean. So, when exactly do you think you should call in security?”

“Oh, you know, when someone’s trying to steal something. We do have some pricey equipment.”

“Right, so not when some guy is walking around with his ass cheeks hanging out?”

“Hey, if mooning was such a security risk, wouldn’t you have chucked Ash out of here years ago?” Dean flashed Meg a smile, confident that things were not going to go any further.

Shaking her head, Meg sighed in defeat. “You do have a point… But that guy, whoever he was, hit about three other radio stations today.”

“Woah. Seriously?”

Meg nodded and then royally waved her left hand at him, the gesture one of dismissal. Dean pulled on his jacket and headed out, making a detour via the elevator to the floor that Benny’s office was on. He could hear Benny moaning from outside, the dude’s usual stoicism gone from his southern drawl.

“And then h-”

Dean strolled in. “That guy was just faster than you. Dumb move trying to tackle him, what if his ass cheeks had ended up in your face?”

Benny turned to Dean, his face going red. The giant of a man was holding an ice pack to his right shoulder. “No, he-”

“I saw everything, apart from the moment you collided with the architecture,” teased Dean. “Anyway, I needa eat -- see you next week.”

Benny nodded and Dean marched out. A few steps and he was back at the elevator, heading for the lobby. Missouri’s show was in full swing now over the elevator speakers. And the caller’s predicament sounded alarmingly familiar.

“Yeah, so I met up with the guy last week,” said a woman’s voice, “and it turns out he’s still with his wife and hasn’t left her like he said he had when I met him at the drive-thru the first time…”

The elevator reached the lobby before Dean could listen to what Missouri’s advice was going to be, but he recognized the set-up from a missed connection he’d read out three weeks earlier. He pulled on his jacket and was almost out of the building when a familiar, gravelly British voice called his name from behind.

“Dean!”

Turning around, plastering his biggest business smile on his face, Dean shook hands with the station’s owner. Crowley, ever the hands-on owner was wearing a sharply tailored suit and a smile that screamed “let’s murder the little children”, but he didn’t scare Dean. At least not much, but he was finding it impossible to retrieve his hand.

“Crowley, you’re in late.”

“Don’t worry, I was just stopping by on my way to a midnight date,” said Crowley, his expression now devilishly inviting. There was a look in his eyes that was predatory and Dean could feel himself trying to turn away from that look, but failing miserably.

“Sure, well don’t lemme keep you.” Dean finally managed to disengage his hand from Crowley’s and started heading for the lobby’s revolving doors to the world outside. He was glad that the masked matador had not been mentioned.

“And Dean!” Crowley called out.

Dean stopped and looked back at his boss’s boss.

“Next time, call security.” Crowley knew about the matador. Dean nodded, waved and bowed his head as he stepped out into the cold night air, the temperature hardly above freezing. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

Pulling his jacket close, Dean headed towards the twenty-four hour diner half a block away that most of the station’s staff frequented. Valentine’s Day was almost over as he shouldered his way in through the doorway, rubbing his hands in the sudden warmth that greeted him. Like most nights, there were few people in there, but Kevin was on shift, so that meant that Dean was likely to get a slightly larger slice of pie than he would with the daytime crew. Missouri’s show played in the background from a radio on the main counter.

“Heya Dean - the usual?” Kevin greeted as Dean took up his favorite booth.

“Yep, but could ya heat up the slice?” Dean took off his jacket and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them a little to thaw out the cold that had quickly settled in them.

“Sure thing,” Kevin headed off to sort out Dean’s order.

Heat returning to his hands, Dean looked up from his booth and let his gaze slowly wander down the diner. He spotted one of the news announcers just finishing up, her plate almost clean. One of the local beat officers and then-

Sparkling pools of blue ice stared at Dean from three booths away. The brow above them furrowed. He felt his cheeks grow red from more than just the diner’s heat as the man with short, black and messed-up black hair looked Dean straight in the eye.

Kevin ambled over, blocking him, and put Dean’s warm apple pie, with cream, and a cup of black coffee on his table. “Who’s the guy eyeballing me?” Dean whispered.

Kevin risked a quick look behind and then turned back to Dean. “No idea. But he’s been there most of this evening, some architect,” he whispered back.

 _Architect?_ “Right, well thanks for the pie.”

Kevin beamed at Dean and then headed back behind the counter. Dean kept his eyes on his pie, instinctively reaching for a fork and picking it up. Carefully, he broke a piece off, covered it in cream, and slowly lifted it to his mouth. The warmth was just right; the hint of cinnamon good without being overwhelming.

Swallowing, Dean afforded himself the opportunity to look up from his food. But the man was still glaring at him. Not normally so easily cowed, Dean let his eyes fall back to his pie and he decided to make short work of it and the coffee. There was nothing wrong with him heading back earlier than he normally did. It’s not like there was a roommate waiting at home with a date to instigate an awkward ménage à trois.

Finishing the pie, Dean picked up his coffee and chugged it faster than he normally would, feeling the blue eyes trying to pin him to his seat. A strange matador’s ass was one thing, but this man’s stare was almost pornographic what with the mess of hair on his head too. Dean chucked down some money on the table, knowing the cost by heart (plus tip). He put on his jacket and headed out into the cold, cold night.

Letting the door thump hard against the frame, Dean headed back to the station and his car. Reaching the parking lot beside the building, he fumbled his keys out of his pocket and went to unlock the slick black, ‘67 Chevrolet Impala and then something caught his eyes. Stuck under his front wipers was a small rectangle of white - a business card. Pulling it out from the wiper, Dean looked at the name on the card.

“Gabriel Novak?” Dean muttered to himself, looking at the number and position on the card. This Gabriel was an advertising exec with a local agency. On the back the card simply said “call me” in rakishly slanted handwriting. Dean stuffed the card in a pocket and got into his car.

Had his show gotten that big that advertisers were seeking him out directly?

The car roared to life and Dean pulled Baby out of the lot and started home, to his lonely, empty bed. As he drove past the diner, he chanced a look in through the windows.

Those blue eyes were there again, piercing him? _Nah, he couldn’t have seen me, it’s too dark_ , Dean thought to himself unsure if those blue eyes had stared straight at him again.

*

The false charm of the evening still clung to his ears. Castiel couldn’t wait to escape the opening ceremony for the community center he’d designed. The people there, the handful of city bigwigs that had permeated the crowd and led the opening ceremony were all so fake and two-faced. They didn’t care about the people who really needed the space that Castiel had designed. Didn’t care about the lives that the center could help change. Instead, far too many of the people who had been there that Valentine’s evening were just there for the photo-op: token child, color of your choice, all smile and say cheese.

No, Castiel Novak had wanted out as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to be in the sights of the fakers gathered that evening. Even the local religious leaders just seemed to be there for the photo-op. The moment the photos for the local papers were done, Castiel had hightailed it out of there, begrudgingly handing over a few business cards to those who asked on his way out. He’d taken the job for a quarter of what the firm normally charged, because it was such a needed project.

The architectural firm Castiel worked for gave them all the chance to take on one community cause a year and the center had been his three years ago. He was pleased with how it had turned out, but he couldn’t stand the people who were there that night. He felt sorry for the kids that had been dragged there too, because no one had thought to offer refreshments that were suitable for children. It was like a corner of bureaucratic hell had erupted in a space that Castiel had designed to bring happiness and well-being.

Castiel had tried to calm himself down as he walked out into the cold Chicago evening, trenchcoat wrapped around him tight. He didn’t live far away, but he didn’t want to go back to his apartment alone. Instead he decided to head into a diner that he’d walked past dozens of times before, but had never gone into while overseeing the community center being built. It looked warm and the people inside looked at least far less lizard like than the crowd he’d just been surrounded by.

“Hey, take a seat and I’ll be right with you,” called a cheerful waiter from across the counter. His shirt said “Kevin”. The kid, well, he was probably eighteen, was pulling a shift in this diner on the evening of Valentine’s Day and he did appear genuinely happy to be there. Castiel envied his enthusiasm for the night. Taking a seat, Castiel felt a small stone of self-loathing weigh down in his stomach. He could not remember the last time he had had a date on Valentine’s Day.

Loneliness had plagued him since he’d graduated from college and begun working as a junior architect. Milton and Co. was a nice enough place to work, but as a junior architect, Castiel had to do all the heavy lifting, so to speak. Handle the minor projects that weren’t that high profile and they always had new minor projects. The community center had been his first big project, but he had not done it for the prestige or the long nights it had led to. The reality had been long lonely nights with too much coffee and a drafting board that was now more familiar to him than the backs of his own hands.

Sitting down at a table, Castiel tried to recall the last time he had gone on a date. It must have been just before he turned thirty; he was now thirty-two, and Gabriel had been so sure that Castiel was going to hit it off with Hannah. Instead they’d spent an awkward night realizing that they had nothing in common and that Hannah wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to be dating.

“Kevin! Turn the radio up, he’s gonna be on in a minute!” Shouted a man’s voice from within the kitchen. Castiel watched as Kevin bumped the volume of the radio and took an order from another table.

Castiel started looking at the menu. The food at the opening event had been pretty lackluster. His stomach gave a hungry rumble as he looked over the waffles section and his eyes landed on one option, which was fresh raisin waffles served with drizzled honey, almonds and pistachios.

“Ready to order?” Kevin was stood at Castiel’s table.

“Yes. I would like the raisin waffles with honey, almonds and pistachios, please and a cup of coffee.”

“Good choice.” Kevin smiled as he finished noting Castiel’s order then headed off to place it. Castiel had not been paying much attention to the music on the radio, but then the show’s host began speaking again.

“And now I pass you into the capable hands of our master of love and romance, Dean Winchester for Deano’s Missed Connections,” said a drawling man’s voice. A jingle played, rocky and strong.

“Good evening, Chicago! Our mailbag is full, our lines are jammed, so I hope you are all ready to find someone to love and to hold on this very special of days, Valentine’s Day! So let’s hope cupid hears your prayers and likes fine music. Okay, it’s time for some Rolling Stones!” Castiel felt his heart warm to the cheerful tones of the host’s voice, Dean sounded genuine and enthused.

A guitar started and some ethereal “ooohs”, and a man’s voice began to sing, “Oh, a storm is threat'ning. My very life today. If I don't get some shelter. Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away…” Castiel did not recognize the song, but he listened all the same. It was quite different to the jazz station he normally had play in the office. He wasn’t against rock music, it just wasn’t something he’d ever really been into.

The song’s end was joined by waffles and coffee on Castiel’s table. Ears trained on the radio, Castiel couldn’t stop listening to Dean’s voice. His voice was like the broken psalm of an atheist in a confessional, hungry and deep. Something was missing in Deano’s life all right, but as Castiel continued to listen -- eating his waffles -- he was pretty sure Dean was not missing God. It was a different kind of hunger.

“Okay, we’ve got a guy asking for the lady who was waiting in line with him for ‘Grateful Dead tickets on Tuesday’. He says: Thinking about you all the time. Don't understand how you can tell me you want to [fudge] me then tell me to f-off a minute later. I really need you.” Dean paused and Castiel found himself waiting impatiently for that brief second, wanting the air filled with Dean’s voice again.

“And before we hit the sponsors and tunes again, we’ve got a guy looking for ‘buff man at Krogers on Thursday Feb sixth’. He says: You were buff, muscular, manly, middle aged-white male in red plaid. Your friend was wearing blue jeans and a gray shirt and was much shorter than you. You probably stand at 6 feet but appear bigger because of your strong arms. You definitely work out. I was instantly smitten by you. I am a much smaller guy and would love to feel your big arms wrapped around my tiny body. You saw me and smiled.”

Calmly and efficiently, Dean tackled the ways listeners could get in touch, before fading in a sponsor message and then hitting up the next track by someone called Jefferson Airplane. It sounded a little trippy, the way the woman’s voice echoed over the backing music, but Castiel found himself gently swaying in his seat.

“And if you go chasing rabbits. And you know you're going to fall. Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar. Has given you the call…”

Finishing his waffles, Castiel waved Kevin over and asked if it were possible to have a vanilla malt shake.

“Sure, I’ll make you one right up.”

Eyes drifting, Castiel noticed that a section of the wall near the front door had been covered in autographed photos of people. Castiel did not recognise any of the names tagged below the photos, reading “Missouri Mosely” on one, “Ash - Dr. Badass” on another. Finally his eyes rested on what he could only assume was the visage of the man whose show he was listening to. “Dean ‘Deano’ Winchester” read the tag and Castiel suddenly felt a flush grow on his cheeks. He licked his lips as he studied the dirty blonde hair, slightly quiffed to the side, bright green eyes and solid jawline. College was a distant rumble in Castiel’s ears, the stolen moments, the spontaneous fumbles and the breathless after class sessions with the lecture theater doors locked.

Castiel liked what he saw and knowing that face went with the voice on the radio made Castiel rock a little in his seat. Kevin ambled over with his Castiel’s sizable shake and the architect did his best to calm himself as he was served.

Looking between the wall and Kevin as his table was partially cleared, Castiel wanted to confirm something. “W-why have you got a-all those photos on the wall?”

“Oh, the station’s just down the street and most of the hosts hang out in the diner after their shows.” Kevin gave Castiel another smile. “We’re all pals here.”

Nodding, Castiel waited for Kevin to leave before letting out one long breath he’d been holding in. Sure it was just a voice on the radio and some photograph tacked up on some diner’s wall, but Dean looked like the kind of man that Castiel occasionally hungered for. The kind of man he’d pursued in college. The kind of man he wished he had wrapped around him on Valentine’s Day.

 _He’s probably straight, has a girlfriend_. Castiel took the first suck of his vanilla malt shake. _Probably never kissed a guy before. Fuck, probably thinks anyone who's had a dick up their ass has AIDs_.

Throwing up a white flag before he had even started the battle -- Castiel moped. He sucked on his shake and became lost in thoughts of what he’d have to do when he got into the office on Monday. Slowly tuning out his surroundings, Castiel hardly registered a body sitting down in front of him once he’d reached the halfway point with his shake.

“No date tonight?” Gabriel Novak, advertiser extraordinaire was sat across from Castiel. Dressed in his usual work suit, all pinstripes and red tie, Gabriel looked crisp and smart.

Raising his eyes to greet his brother’s, Castiel let out a sigh and rolled his eyes.

“And, if I’m not mistaken, were you not meant to be at the opening of your grand endeavor? Or were those fake disappointed faces when I popped over just there for show?”

“Ha, so you noticed that too?” Castiel gave his brother a wistful smirk and slurped some more of his shake. “They were a bunch of pretentious, photo-op seeking bores.”

“Preaching to the choir, Cas. Preaching to the choir. Anyway, I am hoping that I might get somewhere with a new business opportunity. Think I found our new client just the right match.”

“Who’s the client?” Castiel’s brow furrowed a little. It had been some time since he’d heard Gabriel enthused about work.

“A certain prophylactic manufacturer. Sorry, can’t name names yet.” Gabriel waved Kevin over. “Can I please get a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows? It is freezing out there tonight.”

“Sure, of course.” Kevin noted down Gabriel’s order. “And anything else for you, sir?” Kevin eyed Castiel.

“No, I have sufficient for the moment. Thank you.”

Once Gabriel had been furnished with his hot chocolate, he started talking far too much. Or was it just right? Castiel listened to his brother’s meanderings, drowning out most of Dean’s voice on the radio.

“Oh, and Luci and Lilith are getting a divorce.”

Malt shake almost coming out of his nose, Castiel gasped for a moment with shock. “T-they are?” Castiel tried not to cry from the discomfort of the misplaced shake as he brought himself under control.

“Yep. Lilith told mom and dad this morning, but they didn’t want anyone to say anything to you until your grand opening was over.”

“Lilith can do better.”

“Hey now, that’s no way to talk about ou- Okay I can’t kid myself. Lucifer is an ass of a brother and was an even bigger ass of a husband.” Gabriel stared down into his warm mug and Castiel gave him a sympathetic look.

“Not to bring the mood down further, but why aren’t you out tonight?”

“What, at Balthazar’s? Please, that place will be intolerable on Valentine’s Day. All those young men strutting about the place with little to no experience? Puh-lease… All those young women dancing their pretty asses off, with little to n-” Gabriel picked up his hot chocolate once more and drank it as if it were a tepid glass of water.

“Gabe, careful!”

Putting the mug down and placing some change on the table, there was an urgency in Gabriel’s movements. Standing up, Gabriel pointed a finger at Castiel. “You should come with me! We’ll get drunk and find some lovely people to take home with us. I’ve got free samples.”

“I’m good here, thanks. But don’t let my apathy stop you from having fun.” Castiel sighed and then slurped bit more of his shake.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Gabriel gave Castiel a huge grin before striding away from his table and bowing his way out of the diner entrance.

The shake was gone too. Calling for more coffee, Castiel pulled out a sketchbook and mechanical pencil from his trenchcoat and began to sketch. Deano was still on in the background, the missed connections and rock music a pleasant buffer against his own loneliness.

Baroque columns appeared on the page, detailed and gaudy, surrounding an alcove. Looking at the page, Castiel frowned at the space he’d left. It needed to be filled, wanted to be filled and as his hand began to trace, to curl and curve the strokes of his pencil, a statue began to form. His mind had not strayed far from where it had been before Gabriel’s appearance. Inside the alcove was a face that looked distinctly like Dean’s, though the shape of his body was a guess.

“This thing called love I just can't handle it, this thing called love I must get round to it…” sang a man on the radio.

Castiel stopped and looked at what he was drawing and a blush crept up his cheeks. An Adonis was standing, unabashedly, on his page. _One track mind there, Castiel. You’ve heard his voice and seen a photograph, calm the fuck down_. Castiel flipped to a new page and started sketching the exterior of an art deco building that didn’t exist yet.

Straight, broad lines, symmetry. No room for fussy detail. Just boldness. Not a naked man in sight.

“Load up on guns, bring your friends. It's fun to lose and to pretend. She's over bored and self assured. Oh no, I know a dirty word…”

The melancholy behind the song stopped Castiel’s hand from shading between the ridges he had been working on. A young man’s voice filled the diner, a complete contrast to the feeling of all the tracks Dean had played that night so far. It was the clearest sign that the radio host hungered for something he did not currently have.

“More coffee?” Kevin was beside his table again. Castiel nodded yes and continued listening to the song and the rawness there.

“That’s a pretty good drawing you’ve got there.” Kevin had just finished topping Castiel’s coffee up and was staring at his sketch.

“Uh thanks. I’m an architect.” The song was ending.

“Oh, cool. Designed anything in the city?”

Creepy handshakes and false greetings played out against Castiel’s mind’s eye. He didn’t feel like boasting. “No, not yet.”

“Someday, eh?”

“Yes, someday.” Castiel gave Kevin a look which did its job of sending the young man scuttling towards the kitchen to deal with another order.

Looking down at his sketch, Castiel sighed and switched to a clean page. Quick, fast wrist flicks saw circles form on the paper. Once he had one that looked perfect enough he began to shade it in, imagining the light hitting it from one direction. A good sphere took time and Castiel zoned out as he perfected the shape.

Coming back to reality, Castiel listened just in time for Dean to sign-off and for the next show to begin. _Perhaps I should just pay and head home_. Castiel closed his sketchbook and put it and the pencil away. _But what if Dean comes here? What if he comes here after his show?_ He could not remember when he had ordered more coffee, but his cup was full again, tying him there.

Twenty minutes later and Dean stopped by. Castiel had just finished eating some more waffles, and was on a questionable numbered cup of coffee when reality confirmed that Adonis existed. Snatching glances at Dean as the radio host sat down, Castiel pinched his own hand to just check that this was indeed a reality where Dean Winchester existed. Reality was confirmed, but was it one where the charming radio host could spare a thought for him?

 _Probably not interested, probably not interested, probably not interested. He wears plaid. He looks like the most wholesome of wholesomeness that America can push out._ Castiel couldn’t stop looking at Dean as he ordered and began to eat. Somewhere a sensible part of his brain was screaming at him, “Look the fuck away, Cas, look the fuck away! You are scaring the man!” But no one else was listening and so Castiel was a little saddened when Dean left so quickly with a nervous glance in his direction.

Castiel eventually realized he’d been looking at Dean in a way that had been entirely inappropriate. He’d been warned before that his gaze could be “intense”.

_Smooth, Novak, smooth. Now what the hell are you gonna do?_


	2. At the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut begins in this chapter.

“Next up we have a gentleman looking for ‘the pie connoisseur’.” Dean pressed a button and a voicemail message began to play over the air.

“Hello, pie connoisseur. I’m sorry if my staring was too much and almost put you off your apple pie on Valen-” Dean‘s breath caught and his eyes bugged out, brain catching up with what he was listening to, but he couldn’t stop the recording, “-tine’s evening, in Colt’s Diner. But if I didn’t give you any nightmares, maybe you’d like to share a slice with me sometime?”

Dean drew a quick breath before they lapsed into dead air. “Alright, folks, you know the drill: call us now on 1-900-” He rambled off his usual spiel. Cutting to sponsor messages, Dean made sure “Burnin’ For You” by Blue Öyster Cult and a few other songs were ready to click into action in the tape decks before signalling to Meg that he needed to get some air.

Stepping out of his booth, Dean went to the men’s bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. Looking up, he found those sparkling pools of blue ice were looking at him from the mirror. Dean checked behind him, heart hammering. _I’m alone_.

_How is this even happening? How?_

After being asked to file a report on the Masked Matador incident with the station manager, Dean had been left no time that Wednesday evening to look through the connections he would be reading out or playing. The voicemails were rare on account of them having to go through a premium rate number. This came out out of the blue.

 _Do I even… respond?_ Dean looked at himself in the mirror and tried to regain some of his composure.

*

_Four nights previously..._

“Mmnnhh! Come on!” Dean rolled over in bed -- ignoring the wood between his legs -- and sleepily groped towards his nightstand and the phone balanced on there. Face half buried in his pillows, he pulled the receiver to his ear. All he could hear was the heavy breathing of a guy and then-

“D-Dean?! Dean, it’s Sam. Listen, could you pick me up and let me crash at your place?”

Shifting and sitting up in bed, Dean’s eyes flicked towards his bedside clock. The red glow told him --“It’s three in the morning.”

“I know, I know, but I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.” Panic curled through Sam’s voice and regardless of the time, Dean’s big brother instincts started to kick in.

“Where are you?”

“On the outskirts of Mount Olive Cemetery in Dunning, I think.”

Dean got out of bed now and started feeling around for clothes before remembering to turn on a light. “A cemetery, Sam! What the hell are you doing all the way over there?”

“I was, uh, working on a story.”

Boxers and jeans on, Dean pulled some shirts towards himself. “What story?”

“Chicago-Read… there’s something going on.”

Realising that Sam was investigating a state mental health facility, Dean’s stomach went ice cold. “Did they see you?”

“I’m not sure?”

“Fuck, fine, I can get to you in about thirty minutes. Don’t do anything else stupid. Like, don’t go wandering into the damn cemetery.”

“Come on, I’m not that stupid.” Sam hung up. Dean slammed his phone down and finished getting dressed, adding some layers and putting his Doc Martins back on. Grabbing his leather jacket and keys, Dean was out of his apartment in under five minutes.

Sam’s voice had been sober enough, so Dean knew his little brother was telling the truth rather than getting into some Valentine’s night partying or playing a gig. If the little bitch had partied himself out, he would have left Sam to find his own place for the night. The icy feeling in Dean’s stomach remained as he got Baby going. Idiot, why the hell did he want to be a reporter? Dean recalled a time when Sam wanted to be a high-flying lawyer, but something had changed in college and now he was pitching stories to the Tribune while he finished his final year. _I knew that internship with the Tribune last summer was a bad idea._

Driving in silence wasn’t making Dean feel any better, but at least the interior had heated up quickly. Turning the car stereo on started the cassette already in it. Nothing happy, just Black Sabbath’s “Tyr” album, which was pretty heavy; it was completely dissonant with the dream that nearly made him sleep through Sam’s call. Remembering that dream sent shivers down Dean’s spine.

Those bright blue eyes had been looking at him in his sleep. The man remained silent, but in Dean’s dream he just stared and stared at him. Until he’d gotten up from his booth and walked to Dean’s, leaned over him, cupping Dean’s face and then kissed him. In the dream, the kiss had been possessive and stirred something inside Dean. Sense memories of Aaron had driven the dream further. Things would have escalated if only Sam hadn’t called.

“Tyr” proved to be too depressing an album to have on while saving your little brother’s ass from God knows what. Dean hit the eject button, kept his eyes on the road and let muscle memory pull the tape out and find another one in the slot where he always stowed a few. And so it was to the tune of AC/DC’s “The Razor’s Edge” album that Dean pulled up beside Sam fifteen minutes later.

“Thanks.” Sam climbed into the car quickly and started rubbing his hands in front of the heating vent. Glancing over at Sam, Dean took in his brother’s satchel, thin jacket and thinner shirt and wondered how he’d not already frozen.

“Next time you go snooping around state health facilities,” Dean pulled away from the curb, “you make sure you a) wear something warmer and b) seek a safe place that is not a goddamn cemetery. I thought you had friends at Wilbur?”

“Dude, not on Valentine’s do I have friends in any dorm. Not unless I want to wash my eyes out with mouthwash after.”

“Both points still stand.” Dean started tapping his hand on the steering wheel as “Are You Ready” filled the car.

“You sound like mom,” Sam replied in a half moan.

Smirking, Dean picked up his speed a little, still within the limit. “Good. On Sunday, I’ll tell her you said that. You’re still coming Sunday, right?”

“In what world would I miss her pot roast? There is no world where I would miss that. None.” Sam grinned. “Thanks, though, seriously man. This thing is pretty, yeah.”

“How long do you need to stay over?” Dean’s voice was sincere. Sam was taller than him now, but his little brother still scared easily.

“Take me home Sunday, after mom’s?”

“Sure thing.”

They drove without speaking for a time, letting AC/DC do all the talking. Dean wanted to ask what could possibly be happening at an asylum that warranted Sam being there, but Sam would tell him in his own good time. Instead, Dean began to tap along to the music as he drove back to his place on the outskirts of Little Italy. This was probably the best time to be driving in Chicago, only stopping for lights rather than tailbacks. He concentrated, but the roads were open enough for the drive to be therapeutic, now that Sam was safely with him. Dean longed for his bed.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Sam looked at Dean and his tapping hands.

“No idea.” _Nothing to do with getting back to sleep and seeing those blue eyes. Nothing._

*

Gabriel’s drunken singing wakes Castiel not long after half-three in the morning. Of course Gabriel couldn’t be bothered to go the slightly further distance from Balthazar’s to his own apartment. It made perfect sense that he would use his spare key to go and crash noisily at Castiel’s instead and claim one of his couches. _Asshole._

“Gabe, would you,” Castiel yawned, “keep it down, huh?”

“I’ll keep it down if you keep it down.” Gabe looked at Castiel with a grin, his eyes flicking between Castiel’s face and his-

“Shi-!” Castiel hid himself with his robe, pulling it around his pajamas, before heading off to get some bedding for Gabriel.

Returning to the lounge, Castiel scowled at Gabriel as he threw some spare blankets and quilts onto the couch. “There, that should be sufficient. I will wake you in the morning.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will wake you in the morning.” Castiel muttered and returned to his bed. He removed his robe and settled back under his quilts. Closing his eyes, trying to will himself back to the sleep that his body was calling for, Castiel could not settle again. What happened instead? Dean Winchester.

They were back in the diner and Dean had a slice of apple pie in front of him. Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s as he slowly ate the pie, piece by delicious piece. The fork would linger in Dean’s mouth and then when he removed it, he’d lick it a little, tongue flicking out. Castiel started wondering what else that tongue could do. Right hand trailing down to the wood that Gabriel had mocked, Castiel pushed his hand inside his pajamas and gripped himself.

A few quick pumps and he was writhing, silently, in his bed. Dean on his knees, pie finished, licked Castiel’s tip. Those big green eyes were looking up at Castiel, a cast of innocence about them suggesting that there was no way Dean would ever do this. Inside Castiel’s head though, Dean wrapped his right hand around Castiel’s length and then slowly pushed his mouth over him. Swallowing him up.

Despite the imagery, Dean still maintained the look of wholesomeness that had stopped Castiel from approaching him in the diner. It was a face that said, “I’ve never done this before,” but that wasn’t what drove Castiel wildly into his own hand. It was those bright green eyes of his and the spray of freckles; the perfect hair; rippling muscles under his clothes and-

Smushing his face into his pillows, Castiel shook as he came, stifling his shouts so that Gabriel wouldn’t hear him. Finished, he lazily cleaned himself up with some Kleenex and finally drifted back to sleep.

“Cas, pancakes?”

Light fought its way into Castiel’s bedroom and a far more sober Gabriel stood in his doorway, apron tied around him. Castiel turned over in bed to look blearily at his brother.

“Mmm, please. What time is it?” Castiel yawned.

“Almost ten. Figured I let you sleep a bit more.”

“Thanks.”

Gabriel nodded and headed back to the kitchen. Gabriel knew how much pressure Castiel had been under at work lately, and that he had needed the sleep. It was only out of habit that Castiel had said he’d wake Gabriel up.

Sheets tangled around him, Castiel half fell out of his bed. Castiel eventually made his way to the bathroom and started sorting himself out. A mess, he made hasty work of putting his pajamas in the laundry hamper before relieving himself and then getting into the shower.

Water trailing over his body, the heat bringing Castiel back to himself, he couldn’t help letting out a long sigh. He didn’t have to do anything that Saturday; the day was free to him and Gabriel was around. _A lazy Saturday._ He’d been so caught up in overseeing the community center that his Saturdays hadn’t been free for quite some time. _Though, I wonder what a lazy Saturday with Dean would be like…_ Castiel stopped himself from drifting his hand over his crotch.

Turning off the shower and drying himself, Castiel’s stomach rumbled a little when the smell of fresh pancakes hit him on the way back to his bedroom. He dressed quickly, choosing some stonewashed jeans and a blue shirt to go over his vest. Ambling into the kitchen, he noticed that Gabriel was wearing a bigger grin than usual.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Castiel took a seat at his breakfast bar. Castiel’s apartment was generously sized and he owned it. His tiny corner of Bridgeport had been a fixer upper and Castiel had fixed it up. It wasn’t bursting with furnishings and furniture, but it was warm, clean and home. Though Gabriel would sometimes complain about the starkness of Castiel’s white walls and ceilings.

Pushing a plate of pancakes to Castiel and handing him some blueberry syrup, Gabriel’s grin widened further. “It’s nothing Cas, nothing…”

“Then why do you look like you’re miming the Cheshire Cat? Spill, now.”

Gabriel joined Castiel with his own stack of pancakes and busied himself with pouring coffee for the two of them. The grin didn’t leave his face once.

“Gabe?”

“You know me, kiddo, I don’t like to brag but I was on the phone to my manager earlier and guess what? His wife has him out on a romantic getaway on the same day he had tickets for the Bulls’ game. They’re at the office, so he said I could have them if I wanna go get ‘em.”

“How many?” Castiel covered his pancakes in syrup.

“Just the two.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Knicks.”

Cutting into his stack of pancakes, Castiel deliberately took his time before giving Gabriel his answer. Sports weren’t really his thing, but going with his older brother would be worth it.

“Sure, let’s go to the game.”

The jug of blueberry syrup almost fell out of Gabriel’s hand. “Woah, you want to go?”

Castiel frowned. “Why, was there someone else you wanted to take with you and you were just asking me as a courtesy?”

The grin was gone. “No, of course not. But you never-”

“Gabe, I am free for the first time in forever and I want to spend as much time as possible with my favourite brother. Is that too much to ask?”

A smile crept onto Gabriel’s face. “Favourite -- well, when you put it like that.” The grin was back and Gabriel began to slice up his own pancakes.

 _I’m not going to tell him how he’s saving me from spending a day uselessly fantasizing about the man I wish I’d shared Valentine’s with._ Castiel gave Gabriel a huge grin of his own. “I mean it. Hey, we could check in on Balthazar this afternoon.”

Gabriel choked a little. “He’s probably sick of seeing my face, but if _you_ insist.”

*

Sam woke Dean up with a fresh cup of coffee on his bedside table and opening the blinds. His sweaty musk from having gone on a run and a “good morning” meant Dean did not slip back to sleep when Sam headed off to shower. Looking at his clock, Dean saw that it was just after ten. He scooted up to lean against the pine headboard of his bed. The sound of the shower going on filled Dean’s cosy apartment.

Picking up the cup of coffee, Dean breathed in the aroma using it to wake himself up further. He looked through the open blinds, out the window, and noted the clouds rolling in. It would rain later, but for now there was sunshine and bright blue sky for a third of his view.

Blue. Dean’s thoughts brought him back to the night before in the diner and a shiver of excitement ran through him. After an almost decent night’s sleep, the intense staring from the man seemed less scary. The idea that perhaps there had even been something else behind the looks -- the “architect” had thrown his way -- started to take hold inside Dean’s head. His imagination had already run away with him once since the diner and Dean hoped Sam wasn’t going to be too long in the shower.

 _You’ll probably never see him again, he wasn’t a regular_ , crept its way into Dean’s thoughts and his shoulders slumped a little. Even if he hadn’t been intimidated -- and that did not happen often -- Dean wouldn’t pick up a guy at that diner. He wasn’t out about liking both sides. _He wasn’t interested anyway_ , but a part of Dean knew that wasn’t true. He’d encountered stares like that several times in his life and it usually meant that you were hitting on someone attached and were about to get a fist to the face or-

“Shower’s free!” Sam shouted.

Crawling out of his bed, Dean tried to blank out all architect thoughts as he went through the lounge to reach the bathroom, an old band t-shirt and sweats hanging off of him a little. Sam was dressed in some spare clothes he kept at Dean’s -- jeans, t-shirt, and red plaid -- and was towelling his hair as Dean passed through.

“Hey, want me to grab breakfast?” Sam let the towel fall around his neck.

“So long as it’s not that granola and yoghurt crap you like wolfing down so much, then sure: fetch me some breakfast.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam threw his wet towel at Dean and smirked. “Sure, grease, grease and more grease. I gotcha loud and clear.”

“And don’t you forget it!” Dean retorted, throwing the towel back at Sam. “And use the damn hamper!”

“Whatever. Hey, wanna head to Ellen’s bar this evening and watch the Bulls’ game? Could drag along Ash and Benny too.”

Dean paused outside the bathroom door. “Who are the Bulls playing?”

“Knicks.”

“Sure, why not?”

Sam gave Dean a huge grin and made to throw the towel, but Dean ducked inside the bathroom and locked himself in before the wet cloth could hit him.

Looking up in the steamed up bathroom mirror -- Dean wiped it with his hand so he could see what he was doing as he began to clean his teeth. Just as his mouth had a good amount of foamed up toothpaste inside, Dean looked into the mirror once more, but instead of seeing himself he saw the architect staring back at him. _This is-_ Dean blinked and the blue eyes were gone _-getting a bit out of hand._ Heart rate increasing, Dean felt glad to be alone again when he heard the apartment door slam.

Quickly finishing up with his teeth, Dean got the shower going and stepped inside as steam begun to rise into the air. The water felt refreshing. Dean squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shoved his head under the stream of water. The blue eyes were staring at him, in the diner, and as he pulled his head out from under the water, Dean’s right hand snaked down to his half-hard dick.

The architect was cupping his face again, drawing Dean into a kiss. Then the architect pulled the two of them flush together and braced his hands on Dean’s neck and back, as he drove his tongue into Dean’s mouth. In the shower, Dean’s dick was fully erect, his hand doing steady strokes and he couldn’t stop the odd moans that escaped from his mouth.

Slicking himself with water and precome, Dean’s hand got faster as he imagined the architect grinding against him, stealing his breath and then starting to kiss his jaw. Dean bucked a little -- in the dream and reality -- as the architect pulled away so that he could move down and pause his head at dream Dean’s zipper.

The architect kneeled before him and pulled the zipper down. In the shower, Dean’s hand tightened a little on his cock and he slowed before the architect -- in his mind’s eye -- pulled his already hard cock out and licked the tip. Not knowing the architect’s voice, Dean’s imagination didn’t try conjuring one up, but both him and the imaginary Dean cried out when his cock was swallowed. His hand sped up again.

He looked down at the bright blue eyes, gazing up at him as if this was the most normal thing for the architect to be doing to Dean right there in a diner. It was a look rife with expectation and it drove Dean crashing into his orgasm. He teased his eyes open a little as hot spurts of his come shot off into the shower water.

Catching his breath before he started to soap himself up, Dean sighed. _Shoulda said something. Damn it!_

*

Operation clean clothes had gone without a hitch. Operation obtain tickets from Gabriel’s boss’s desk drawer had also been pretty uneventful. Once they were out of the building, Castiel had stopped by a newsstand to buy the day’s Tribune.

Gabriel read the headline out loud. “Mooning masked matador eludes capture!”

“Why would-”

“No idea, but imagine cutting the holes out of an actual matador costume for your ass cheeks. Those things are not cheap.” Gabriel read the front page over Castiel’s shoulder as they dodged the rest of the foot traffic.

“And how do you come by the knowledge of how much a matador’s costume costs?”

“Was thinking of going as one to Balthazar’s New Year’s party, but the price wasn’t right.”

“It wasn’t free?”

“Just because I scored these tickets for free, kiddo, does not mean I’m averse to paying my way.” Gabriel pouted.

“I hope you tell all your dates that.” Castiel dodged the hand that flew out to poke him in the ribs. Not that it would have done much damage, he’d pulled his tan trenchcoat close to protect himself from the drizzle that the day had grown into.

They trooped over to Balthazar’s apartment, which had a nice view with a sliver of Lake Michigan on a good day. Gabriel’s former college roommate would not be pleased to see them so early in the afternoon, but Castiel knew infuriating Balthazar was a hobby of Gabriel’s.

“Wha-” Balthazar cut himself off as he stared, bleary eyed, at the two of them outside his door. They’d buzzed another apartment to let them into the building. The nightclub owner was wrapped up in a deep purple, silk dressing gown.

“Hey Balthy, long time no see!” Gabriel gave his friend a wide grin.

“It was only,” Balthazar replied in his thick English accent, counting the time in his head, “just over twelve hours ago. You little shit bag.”

“Ever the charmer! Say, you got any of that fine Columbian roast in? I’ll put a pot on.”

Balthazar, eyes red, sleep fled, stepped aside and allowed Gabriel entry. Castiel hovered at the threshold and Balthazar seemed to notice him for the first time.

“Cas! Now you? I haven’t seen in an age!” Balthazar clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and pulled him into a crushing hug.

“It’s, uh, good to see you too.” Castiel couldn’t move his arms. “I believe last time was New Year’s Eve?”

Balthazar unwrapped his arms from Castiel and held him out at arm’s length. “Too long, too long. Coffee?”

Before Castiel could reply, Balthazar enthusiastically dragged him into his apartment and to the kitchen. Castiel tried hard to remember why he’d not seen Balthy since New Year’s Eve. He’d been pretty drunk that night, but it had only been today that he’d suddenly been interested in seeing Gabe’s friend again. _What piece of this picture I am missing?_ Castiel asked himself as he reached the kitchen, trench coat removed.

Gabriel was busy handling the coffee. Castiel perched on a stool beside Balthazar’s breakfast bar, putting his copy of the Tribune down, and then found he had a close companion. Frowning, Castiel tried to remember what had happened the previous month as he felt heat radiate off of Balthazar.

The loud ring of Balthazar’s phone sounded. “Excuse me.” Balthazar hopped off his stool and headed to the phone in his lounge.

“Shit, Cas,” Gabriel had turned away from his task and was glaring at him. “I didn’t think you were going to go through with coming here!”

“Gabriel… why haven’t I seen Balthazar since last month? What am I not remembering?”

Gabriel leaned over the bar and kept his voice low. “Because, kiddo, he was your midnight treat! I knew you were drunk, but I didn’t realise you were so far gone that you couldn’t remember that kiss.”

Nervousness gripped Castiel. His stomach rolled. He had kissed Balthazar. The phone conversation next door continued in a low murmur.

“I think I must have remembered a little. I’ve refused almost every offer to go to the club since.”

“So, Cas, dearest,” Gabriel leaned in closer to him, “what’s changed since last night’s offer? Huh? Who or what has loosened you up?”

 _Green eyes and plaid._ “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I can’t make that promise, you know that.”

Looking over his shoulder, Castiel checked that Balthazar was still on the phone. The murmurs continued.

“I’ve got a crush on a radio show host.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Dean Winchester fro-”

“Hey! ‘Deano’s Missed Connections’, Dean Winchester?!”

“Yes, why?” Castiel felt like sliding off the stool.

“He’s the one I’m hoping to hook up with our new client! Wait, does he…?”

Castiel knew the question. Was Dean gay or bisexual? “Not as far as I know.”

Returning to the coffee, Gabriel checked over the liquid that was being distilled into the pot. “When’d you...?”

“Last night in the diner, when I stared at him while he ate a slice of apple pie.”

“I’ve talked to you about that before, kiddo. Tone those baby blues down or you’ll scare away all the boys!”

Finding some cups, Gabriel started pouring the coffee out for the three of them as Balthazar returned. “Ah, coffee!”

The conversation about Dean stopped, and Gabriel and Balthazar talked. There was speculation as to who the mooning, Masked Matador could be. Castiel sat in silence, unsure how to handle Balthazar or what to do about his feelings for Dean.

Coffee turned into pre-game snacks. Balthazar finally got showered and dressed. Before the three of them left Balthazar’s for their evenings, Balthazar cornered Castiel against a wall. Gabriel was in the bathroom.

“You’ve been avoiding me. It’s okay if New Year’s didn’t mean a thing, Cas, but don’t leave a man hanging. Hmm?”

Swallowing hard Castiel nodded. “Sorry.”

Balthazar braced his hands either side of Castiel’s shoulders. “I’ve always had a soft spot for you. When you used to visit-”

“I know.” Castiel felt a small pull towards the Englishman. The pull that had awakened under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol. The same pull that had led to breathless kissing several times on Gabriel’s dorm bed.

Balthazar’s lips were on Castiel’s before he knew what was happening. _No, this isn’t what I need now. No._ Castiel’s hands flew up and he pushed the other man away.

“Tell Gabe I’ll be waiting for him outside.” Castiel picked up his coat and stormed out.

A long five minutes later and Gabriel joined Castiel. Balthazar had not come down with him. The two of them started towards Chicago Stadium.

“So, another month and-a-half until your next visit then?”

*

“At Chicago Stadium. Ready for the starting line-up for the Knicks…” Ellen had just raised the volume on the television set above the right hand corner of the bar.

They’d feasted on hoagies down the street before hitting the bar. Sam was on Dean’s left, Ash on his right with Benny sat next to Ash. Beers and baskets of fries accompanied them. There were a few other regulars there to watch the game. Ellen had warned that Bobby might stop by. Dean didn’t want to start thinking about Monday already -- his other boss was nice enough -- he had a bitch of a body work job coming in and he was not looking forward to it.

Dean hadn’t done much with Sam over. They’d listened to records and tapes while Dean sorted out his playlists for the coming week, his journal had five fresh pages of track notes. Sam’s tastes in music were similar to his own, but he leaned towards the newer stuff more. Couldn’t stop talking about Nirvana.

Taking a swig of beer, Dean started to only half watch the game.

Sam nudged him. “Do you want to swing by practice on Tuesday?”

“Uh, sure.”

“We’ve got a new lead vocalist. She’s something special.”

The way Sam had said that made Dean turn away from the TV and look at his little brother. “Something special?”

A blush crept across Sam’s cheeks and he casually sipped his beer. Eyes back on the game. “Her name’s Jess.”

“You sweet on her?” Benny had overheard.

“We’ve got a class tog-”

A smirk on his face, Dean turned his attention back to the game. It was only the first quarter, but it looked like it was going to be a tight game that night. Sipping his beer, he found his eyes roving the crowd in the seats behind the court. That was when he saw him. Again. The damn architect. A few rows back from the court, talking to some guy with lighter hair, before the camera moved on, following the players.

“Woah, you okay there man?!” Ash’s hand was on Dean’s back, slapping him as Dean coughed and spluttered, beer flowing from his mouth and nostrils.

Dean continued to cough and in the end he jumped down from his barstool and made his way to the men’s restroom so he could sort himself out in peace. Ever helpful, Ash called if he wanted assistance as Dean made his way through the small crowd that had gathered in the Roadhouse.

“Hey there!” Jo piped up, coming through from the kitchen, carrying a couple of trays ladened with hot dogs and fries. Normally Dean would have stopped to chat, but he desperately needed to get to the restroom and try anything to get the beer out of his nasal cavity.

“Sorry, need to-” Dean bustled past, feet on autopilot steering him to safety.

Pushing the door open and sliding through, Dean went up to the sinks and turned the faucet to cold. He splashed the water up into his face, inhaling some of it on purpose before messily snorting out and into the drain trying to clear his nose. The burning pain was right up there for some of the misfortunate nastiest shit he’d ever experienced, including being swabbed for STIs.

“Christ!” He snarled as the pain refused to die down. Dean didn’t want to cry, but he could feel tears in eyes. He coughed as his throat burned from the beer that had tried for his lungs.

“Dean?” Sam had poked his head in.

“It won’t stop burning. Why won’t it stop burning?!” Dean splashed his face again.

Sam’s large hand was on his back, slapping him reassuringly and Dean coughed a few more times and snorted. He clutched at the sink for support. This was fucking ridiculous and he knew it.

“You know you’re meant to drink it, not breathe it, right?” Sam joked as Dean tried to get himself back under control. “How’d you even manage this?”

With a shaky hand, Dean reached out for the nearby paper towels and grabbed a few of them. Wiping his face, getting his breathing back to normal, he waited to say anything to Sam. He wasn’t going to tell him the full story, but he would say something.

“Saw someone… I hadn’t seen in a while at the game, on the television,” Dean lied. His voice was hoarse from coughing and it hurt to talk.

“What was it Lisa or-”

“You wouldn’t know them.” Which was true, Sam wouldn’t know _him_.

“Okay, man, okay. Let’s get you back to your seat. Want me to get you a glass of water?”

Dean leaned against the sink again. “Just gimme a moment. I’ll meet you back there.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Pretty damn sure I don’t need my baby brother mothering me. Scoot!”

Sam held his hands up in supplication and backed out of the bathroom. Alone, Dean looked up into the mirror in front of him. The blue eyes were staring back at him once more.

_I am so screwed._

*

“Time to go.” Gabriel was standing as the crowds begun to filter out of their seats.

“Right, yes…”

Bulls had won, a close game, finishing 99-98. Castiel had clapped along with the fans when the game had ended. Had cheered a little during it. Gabriel had been the more animated, but Castiel had struggled to focus on what was happening.

It was kind of difficult for Castiel’s mind not to keep going back to Balthazar’s kiss. Maybe once he had felt something towards Gabriel’s former roommate, but he didn’t anymore. Instead the kiss had just intensified his need to somehow make contact with Dean again, minus the intense staring.

“What’s on your mind, Cas?” Gabriel asked as they stepped out into the rain soaked night.

Castiel pulled his trenchcoat close around him and kept his eyes out for a cab. “I’m just tired.”

Gabriel successfully hailed a cab and the two of them got in it. Castiel let his brother give their destinations while he slumped in his seat. He looked out at the garishly lit storefronts and office buildings, their lights transformed by the rain.

“Look if the thing with Balthy is bothering you that much, I can go and talk to him for you.”

Of course Castiel knew something needed to be said to Balthazar, but it seemed ridiculous that Gabriel should be the one to do the talking. Castiel turned his gaze to his brother. Balthy wasn’t who was really troubling him. It wasn’t the first time he’d bolted from the man, but hopefully it would be the last.

No, what was bothering Castiel was how smitten he was with a radio presenter who he’d listened to and seen once. A man who he probably terrified and who probably would never be interested in a million years.

“Cas, say something!” Gabriel pouted. “Or is this about Dean Winchester?”

Castiel looked away again.

“Oh for- I know this may sound a touch corny, but kiddo, why don’t you just call in to his show?”

The breath caught in Castiel’s chest and he turned to Gabriel. “Call his show?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m pretty sure he’ll remember you if you mention how much you turned those baby blues on him,” Gabriel laughed, “no one forgets that stare.”

*

“Please record your message, name, address and phone number after the beep.”

BEEP!

“Hello, pie connoisseur. I’m sorry if my staring was too much and and almost put you off your apple pie on Valentine’s evening, in Colt’s Diner. But if I didn’t give you any nightmares, maybe you’d like to share a slice with me sometime?” Castiel paused, “My name is Castiel Novak and my address is-” Castiel carefully sounded out his address and phone number then hung up.

It was Monday night and he’d spent the last two hours installing a new phone handset with answering machine, while plucking up the courage to call “Deano’s Missed Connections”. Legs having slowly turned to jelly, Castiel sat down on his couch and tried to get his breathing under control.

The answering machine had been Gabriel’s idea. “Just in case he calls when you’re out,” Gabriel had explained while picking one out for him in the store, “and also so I can leave drunken messages to you when the mood strikes.”

He didn’t expect to hear anything until Wednesday. If he expected to hear anything at all. _Maybe he’ll write instead_ , Castiel pondered, eyeing the bottle of vodka and shot glass he’d left out on his coffee table. He sat forward and filled the shot glass with vodka, downing it in one go. _Maybe Dean just doesn’t swing this way or my way_.

Not knowing whether Dean was interested in guys, Castiel had tried to leave his message as gender neutral as possible. Still, he wondered if he did make it specific enough. _Fuck, Novak, what if he does call or write? What then?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [MercuryStardust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryStardust) and [Zeryx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeryx) for beta reading so far.
> 
> And thanks to Zeryx for the title and telling me that Dean's voice, well... "His voice was like the broken psalm of an atheist in a confessional". Plus thanks to [badwolfgoddess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfgoddess) for the summary.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed chapter one. See you in the comments ;)


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